When he finished, he slipped the dress from her shoulders and began to stroke her pale skin.
“No,” she protested.
“It is my right,” he whispered seductively, his mouth so close to her ear that his warm breath tickled it. His hands moved slowly, tantalizingly over her body. “I am your husband.”
The tenderness and erotic rhythm of his caress excited and unnerved Tia, sending involuntary shivers through her. His lips dipped to leave a string of kisses across the nape of her neck.
Try as she might to remain indifferent to him, she could not, and she hated herself for succumbing so easily to him.
“So,” he whispered in her ear, a note of triumph in his voice, “my touch still excites you.”
“Why are you doing this?” she moaned. “You prefer your convenient to me. All you wanted was to prove that you could make me want you.”
He did not deny her charge. “It is only natural that a man should want his wife to yearn for him.”
His satisfied tone snapped the spell he had woven about her. She jerked angrily away from his embrace and whirled to face him. “I prefer a man who yearns for me!”
His face darkened. “Is the Czar that man?”
Tia did not answer him. She enjoyed Alexander’s company, but her affections were not engaged. Unfailingly courtly, he was an entertaining conversationalist and fulsome in his compliments to her. She was not so foolish, however as to mistake his attentions to her for anything other than what they were:
the gallantry of a man who delighted in romantic conquests. Tia had no intention of becoming one of them.
“All London is talking about how the Czar hangs on your every word,” Marc told her sharply.
Tia remained silent, although she could have explained that the real—and highly unromantic—reason Alexander inclined his head so gracefully close to her own when they talked was to hear her better. The Czar was a little deaf. Instead, she forced her face to remain as hard and uncommunicative as her husband’s.
He studied her intently, his hard blue eyes growing increasingly icy. “Let me remind you, madam, of your promise when I offered for you. You swore that you would be a pattern card of propriety, that you would have no other interests, that no breath of scandal would ever attach to you. Are you now reneging upon that vow with the Czar?”
Tia was sorely tempted to make him think that he had good reason to be jealous of the emperor, but her innate honesty would not permit her to indulge in such a deception.
Besides, jealousy could be a dangerous weapon. The memory of poor Amelia and the terrible price that she had paid for trying to make her husband jealous brought tears to Tia’s eyes.
She blinked them back and told Marc with quiet dignity, “I will not break my promises to you. I told you then that I was a woman of my word, and I am. You may be assured that I have been and will continue to be faithful to you.”
But Marc did not look relieved. The mask behind which he concealed his emotions suddenly cracked, and he looked agonized. Abruptly, he whirled and stalked into his own room.
Tia stared after him, baffled as to what she had said to cause him such pain.
Chapter 21
Marc crossed to the windows of his bedchamber that overlooked a wall bright with crimson and yellow honeysuckle. So dark were his thoughts, however, that even this gay sight failed to cheer him.
He had seen the unshed tears glisten in his wife’s eyes as she vowed that she would not be unfaithful to him. He had misinterpreted her sorrow as confirmation that the Czar had captured her heart.
She longs to make Alexander her lover, Marc thought, but her integrity will not permit her to do so.
God, would this nightmare never end!
He had thought it would be over when he had unmasked his diabolical foe. Thanks to the clues Tia had provided him to Major Hetton’s true identity, Marc now knew his enemy to be Sir Francis Pitson. Yet the nightmare went on.
Would it end even when Pitson, hiding somewhere in London after secretly returning to England from five years of exile, was flushed out? Then, at last, Marc would be able to tell his wife the truth. But would it be too late? Once she had loved him, but he had been forced to feign disinterest to protect her from his enemy. Lady Mobry had insisted his wife could not be told of this charade because her expressive face would betray it. He had dared not take the chance Tia’s aunt might be right, but now he feared he might have forever destroyed her love for him.
His unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a servant scratching at the door with a note from Mr. Keller asking him to come to him at once.
Marc immediately obeyed the summons, leaving on foot. His destination was the house on the next street over that backed on his own. There Mr. Keller had set up temporary headquarters so that he and his people could keep a close watch on Castleton House and its occupants.
Marc hoped the message from his detective meant that Pitson had been captured. But he was again disappointed. Sir Francis was still at large, although Keller believed his lair had been located. Once it was known that Pitson, a fugitive from the gallows, was back in England the Bow Street Runners had joined in the manhunt.
“Won’t be long now before we have him.” Mr. Keller’s face hardened, making the jagged scar that cut diagonally from his nose to the left side of his chin all the more pronounced. “And the sooner the better. The stories I’ve heard of Pitson are beyond belief.”
“And unfortunately all true,” Marc said.
With his vast fortune, Sir Francis had thought himself above the law, and he would have been had it not been for Marc who had been so sickened by the murdering jackal that he had been determined to see him brought to justice. English law that dealt so harshly with the poor who stole to eat had another standard for its rich aristocrats and gentry. Even with the power of Marc’s ducal rank, it had taken him nearly a year to see Pitson brought into the dock, convicted of murder, and sentenced to hang.
Yet in the end, it had all been for naught, thanks to the prisoner’s venal jailors. Pitson had bribed his guards and managed to flee the country on a ship he’d chartered to carry him to New Orleans, beyond the reach of English justice.
Mr. Keller said, “You did this nation a great service in trying to rid it of that despicable murdering cur.”
“I had hoped to rid the world of him.”
“Aye, and more’s the pity that he escaped from Newgate before he could be hanged.”
“I immediately suspected that he was the one behind Paul’s death,” Marc said, “but I thought him too much of a coward to dare to return to England with a death sentence over his head. I sadly underestimated his thirst for revenge upon me.”
And revenge Pitson had had, first killing Paul, then very nearly Tia and Freddie, too.
“I need your help tonight,” the detective said.
“What can I do?” Marc asked in surprise.
“Identify Pitson for us. We have no good likeness of him, and I don’t want to alert him to the fact we are on to him by grabbing one of his hirelings instead of him.”
“I’ll do anything you ask if it will aid in his capture.”
“Good.” the detective said, It was the answer he had expected from the duke. During the weeks Mr. Keller had been working for him, he had come to admire his employer. He was cooperative and not in the least clutch-fisted, never quibbling over expenditures. The only time he had cut up stiff was over Doris.
“You told me that she was an experienced lady’s maid,” Castleton had exploded. “The fancy pieces at Madame Theroux’s bordello hardly qualify as ladies. Find me someone else.”
When Mr. Keller had told him that inept as Doris might be as a maid, she had no peer as a trusted undercover operative and reliable bodyguard for his duchess, His Grace had reluctantly agreed to keep her, saying ruefully, “Although how I am to explain it to my poor wife is beyond me.”
Now the detective briefly sketched his plan for capturing Pitson. “We have been told that h
e sleeps during the day and goes out late at night to brothels and gambling halls where he will not be recognized. He returns any time between four and seven a.m. and is usually foxed, which will make him easier to apprehend. We will lie in wait and seize him when he comes home.”
Tia stole out of the Prince’s Pavilion in front of the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens and went swiftly down the stone steps. The Pavilion had been hot, crowded, and noisy, and she longed for quiet solitude.
How little she truly enjoyed these affairs when she was not with Marc, Since the brief interlude in her bedroom earlier in the day, she had been awash in confusion. She had been so certain that she had overcome her foolish tendre for Marc,. but now she was no longer certain.
She skirted the dinner boxes and made her way to the Hermit’s Walk, the smallest and least-used of Vauxhall’s avenues.
Her Cleopatra costume included a wig of long straight black hair with bangs across the forehead and an elaborate headdress with a jewelled serpent’s head. Between that and her mask, she was confident that no one could possibly recognize her.
The Hermit’s Walk proved to he even more empty than she had expected it to be. Not even a single amorous couple was in sight.
As she strode down the deserted path, a light breeze ruffled the gold gauze of her tunic, which was decorated with an intricately carved gold pectoral. She wondered where Marc was tonight. Most likely with his Jennie. The thought was like a stake through Tia’s heart.
She heard quick, purposeful footsteps approaching behind her. Alarmed, she whirled and confronted a man in a black mask. He was dressed as the devil, complete with horns and tail. She would have hurried past him, but he twisted the wicked- looking pitchfork he carried across the narrow path, blocking her way.
“My dear duchess, surely you can spare me a moment of your time.”
She recognized with consternation the voice of the peculiar man who had approached her at the Cargons’ masquerade. His mask was again exceptionally wide, extending from his hairline to his chin, with holes cut for his nostrils and mouth as well as his eyes.
Tia had been convinced by that first meeting that he was queer in the attic. His accosting her on this dark, deserted walk, particularly when he was armed with that evil-looking pitchfork, unnerved her. She took care, however, to hide her apprehension, saying lightly, “I see that this time you are Lucifer after the fall.”
“So you remember me.” His pale, almost colourless eyes studied her face. “Once, my dear duchess, your husband seemed to relish your company above all others, but now he neglects you, does he not?”
When Tia did not answer him, his lips twisted in a cruel smirk. “Do you know who Jennie Martin is?”
Tia flushed with humiliation that this peculiar stranger should also know about her husband’s preference for his cherished convenient. Did all London know? She cried in anguish, “Do not taunt me with the woman my husband loves instead of me.”
To Tia’s astonishment, he exclaimed, “Loves her, does he! I had not thought it. However, I am happy that Castleton does not love you.”
“Why?” she asked, growing increasingly frightened of him.
“Because I like you.” He lifted his pitchfork to allow her to go by him. “Farewell, my duchess.”
She hurried past him, eager to escape. As she did so, he told her in a whisper so sinister it sent a shiver of alarm through her, “The beauteous Jennie will not disturb your peace much longer, my dear duchess.”
Shocked, she whirled about. “What do you mean?”
But Lucifer had vanished into the darkness.
Tia shivered. The man was truly mad.
Chapter 22
The following day, Tia could not banish from her mind the memory of the madman who masqueraded as Lucifer. The more she thought about the threat to Jennie in his final remark the more concerned she became about her safety. Tia could not permit harm to befall the woman, even if she was the mistress her husband preferred to herself.
She desperately wanted to confide her anxieties to Marc, even though she knew he would be furious when he learned that she knew his incognita’s identity and, worse, had discussed her with a stranger.
But her husband had not been home since he had gone out the previous night, and even his secretary had no idea where he was. Tia was certain that he must be with Jennie.
By evening, Tia was too afraid for her rival to wait any longer. She would have to go to the house in Bloomsbury to warn Marc and his mistress.
She would have preferred to leave Doris and Sebastian at home, but she did not want to risk further inflaming her husband by going off without them.
During the ride to Jennie’s house, Tia tried to steel herself for what was certain to be an unpleasant confrontation. Not only would Marc be livid with her for going there, but Tia felt entirely out of her element in dealing with a beautiful, sophisticated cyprian like Jennie.
When they reached their destination, Tia instructed Doris and Sebastian to wait for her in the carriage.
As she reached for the knocker, a plump, grandmotherly woman with white hair and a marketing basket on her arm opened the door. She started at the sight of Tia on the step and squinted at her through watery, purblind eyes.
“I wish to see the Duke of Castleton,” Tia told her.
The surprised woman blurted, “But he’s not here, ma’am. Oi haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
Tia had been so certain that she would find Marc here that for a moment she was at a loss. But Jennie had to be warned that she might be in danger. Tia asked to see her.
The woman answered sharply, “Miss Martin does not receive Visitors.”
“She will see me,” Tia said in a voice that was as soft as it was firm. “I am the Duchess of Castleton.”
The woman gaped at her.
Jennie, suddenly appearing at the rear of the hall, stopped in surprise at the sight of a visitor.
Tia called to her, “I have come to see you.” Then in a lower tone she told the elderly woman, “Pray go on about your marketing. I wish to be private with Miss Martin.”
The woman obeyed, and Tia went to Jennie. Her rival was even more breathtakingly beautiful at close range than she had been at a distance. Magnificent eyes, fringed by thick lashes, were as blue and limpid as a snow-fed stream. Her remarkable body was charmingly displayed in a gown of sapphire- blue jaconet that enhanced her pearl-like complexion.
A lump rose in Tia’s throat. She could never hope to win her husband’s affections from such a sublime creature, but she reminded herself sternly that this was no time for petty jealousy. Jennie might be in grave danger.
Only one discordant note marred the woman’s appearance, and that was the half dozen necklaces in varying lengths and colours she wore around her elegant swanlike neck. Not one of them held a stone of any merit. All were glittering paste, the kind of trumpery that could be had from street peddlers. Remembering Marc’s willingness to give Jennie whatever she wanted no matter the cost, his wife could only conclude that the woman had no taste for expensive jewels.
Tia followed her into a small drawing room, done in frilly, flowered chintz. It seemed a more fitting
setting for a child than for an elegant courtesan. In the centre of the room a large collection of cherubic porcelain figurines crowded the top of a big mahogany drum table with four splayed legs. Against a wall, a dozen painted china dolls, elegantly begowned, were displayed on a marquetry console. In one corner of a sofa lay a limp rag doll, tattered from too much childish attention.
Seeing it, Tia’s heart sank. Did Jennie have a child? It had never occurred to her that Marc might already be a father. The thought that she might be about to meet his by-blow so overset her that it was all she could do to keep from fleeing.
Jennie gestured toward a bergère covered in floral chintz opposite the sofa. “Please sit down.” Her voice was soft and childlike, with no trace of a coquette’s seductive huskiness.
Tia sank down into the comfort o
f the proffered chair. A heavy silvery candelabra with five long wax tapers had been placed on a small mahogany tripod stand beside the bergère so that its occupant could read at night. She wondered, her heart aching, whether this was where Marc sat at night with his child playing at his feet.
Jennie’s bright eyes looked as innocent as a newborn babe’s. She gave Tia a friendly smile that would surely vanish when she learned her visitor’s identity.
Tia, eager to be done with this unpleasant business, said bluntly, “I am Marc’s wife.”
Her hostess, seating herself on the sofa, looked puzzled. “Who is he?”
The question astonished Tia. She had expected the woman might dissemble about her relationship with Marc but not that she would disclaim even knowing him. “Do not deny that you know the Duke of Castleton,” Tia said sharply. “I know better.”
Instead of withdrawing behind a sly mask as Tia had expected she would, Jennie gave her a dazzling smile. “Oh, yes, I do. I am so happy to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. The duke has told me so much about you.”
Nonplussed, Tia blurted, “I wish he had done the same to me about you.”
This remark seemed to go over Jennie’s head.
Tia’s eyes strayed to the rag doll on the sofa beside the woman. “Do you have a child?”
Jennie picked up the worn doll and clasped it to her breast. “Oh, no, Dorothy is mine. She has been my favourite ever since I can remember. I could not sleep without her in my arms.”
How cosy for Marc, his wife thought acidly.
Jennie, still clutching Dorothy, said shyly, “I hope that you will like me and that we can be friends.”
Tia could only stare at her hostess in amazement. The last thing she had expected from her husband’s incognita was a request for friendship.
Jennie smi1edat her enchantingly. “Your husband has been so kind to me. See the pretty necklace he brought me yesterday.” Jennie plucked a blue necklace from the several around her neck and held it out for Tia’s inspection.
Devil's Bargain Page 15
